We are *not* too old for this shit!

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, there was a cadre of ageless demigods of debauchery… and they were localized in a quasi-remote corner of Pennsyltucky because unleashing them anywhere else would have caused riotous libations on a Roman scale.  We several, we proud remnants of that unforgotten era dust off our war faces from time to time– just because people need to remember why nobody ever gave us all indefinite full rides to our alma mater.

Nah.

Scrap that.

If Edinboro wanted to alleviate their enrollment issues, they’d make us all tenured professors of toxicology, sarcasm, and general awesomeness.  Their *ahem* myopically landmark-oriented budgeting follies will be left for another day.  You can’t put a name on a reputation.  Unless, of course, you are the fucking reputation.

Some of you understand this image, and others do not. If you do not, close the window now and kindly fuck off– because the rest of this article is not for you.

Cortana and I were at Dearborn Hall no more than 15 minutes before I ran into someone from yesterbeers past.  I really can’t remember her name, and no she didn’t remember me from some naked shenanigans.  As it turns out, it was from an errant beer pong running riot from 2010.  That was secondary to the recognition of the shirts I wore.  Firstly, congratulations to the Iota Delta chapter of Delta Zeta for having this year’s queen.  Damned if I have any idea who she is, but fuck it–  I know she can’t roll like the girls who made me proud to wear the shirt.  Now, noticing that I was just getting revved up (probably around 11:30ish on Friday), and having been given a situationally epic offer by one of my sisters… well… the games really began, and my body remembered how to switch on the drunkopilot.

Now, the details are intentionally blank here because I have a job that might frown upon my revelries…  however, I’ll leave it here:  muscle memory is the shit.  I triumphantly acquired John’s, made it back to the dorms, and still had the presence of mind to want to break a ukulele off in some douche’s ass.  Yes, there’s a story in here somewhere, but Cortana tells it better…  It ended with her saying something about, “that motherfucking ukulele” and I wrapped my belt around my fist like I was going to be tough or something.

She shook her head, scoffing something along the lines of, “Are you serious?” and continued to enjoy the bevvy of legendary snackage.  Considering that it’s freaking John’s— and I damn near fell over while trying to be all Johnny Badass– I ceded the point and apparently went to bed.

Believe you me, even though the body remembered how to party like a 23 year old (and did so in classic form), apparently it forgot how to shrug that shit off.  Did I mention that I did a fuzzy recollection of my drunken wanderings and clocked over 11 fucking miles during the weekend?  Welcome to my level, bitches, I full-out Mudder-ed Homecoming.

That, however, wasn’t the high point.  The high point was watching some broad get a fucking DUI on goddamn Ontario St.  Those of you who are unfamiliar for that which is Edinboro will not get the joke– but you have to be ten kinds of retarded, five kinds of drunk, and twenty shades of unlucky to get nailed there.

All of Edinboro would have been a huge-ass “checkpoint.” All weekend, all I could do was smell bacon– even when knocking back shotskies.

Seriously, how fucking stupid can you be to drive during Edinboro HoCo?   You can’t go five minutes without seeing a different cop car during the daytime— and we lucky bunch got to drink on the porch of my buddy’s place with front row seats.  Oh yeah, we can drink in public, flout open container laws in front of the po-po, but we’re not stupid enough to grab keys…

… unless, of course, it was to pop the trunk bar and do shots– in plain sight– on a “dry campus.”

All this talk of classic awesomeness reminds me of how I can’t wait for OHNO IV:  Title Yet to be Decided.

Unplug.